In the heaven, O Loved One, sound thy flute again.
From the whirlpool's depth let no eddies swirl: to my eyes apply the salve.
The flute, that charmed gods, men and munis, make me to hear thy flute, O Loved One.
Come, bring the key, undo the lock: reveal to me thy beauteous form.
Dharm Das prays with clasped hands: Set me behind thy lotus feet.

The sun shines on the Peak of Incense Burner,
And the purple vapor rises like smoke.
Lo, the long stream of water hung up yonder!
Straight down three thousand chi the flying torrent leaps,
As if the Silver River were falling from the ninth heaven.

Thou art Sat Guru and I thy servant.
If any beat me or abuse, to thee for justice will I cry.
In sleep, in waking Thou art my defender: I serve none else but Thee.
Thou art Creator, the mystic music: shed abroad, O Lord, Thy ambrosial love.
How may I make my prayer to Thee? Dharm Das has grasped Thy feet.

In the June rains, as if by stealth,
One night the moon shines through the pines.

Round a turn of the Ch'in Fortress winds the Wêi River,
And Yellow Mountain foot-hills enclose the Court of China;
Past the South Gate willows comes the Car of Many Bells
On the upper Palace-Garden Road — a solid length of blossom:
A Forbidden City roof holds two phaenixes in cloud;
The foliage of spring shelters multitudes from rain;
And now, when the heavens are propitious for action,
Here is our Emperor ready — no wasteful wanderer.

A show'r in spring, where an umbrella
And rain-coat walk along conversing.

The kite flies in the self-same spot
Of sky where yesterday it flew.

The snail-man, hurrying along,
Saw not the city which he traversed.

The nightingale and — dinner-time,
With the whole family assembled.

The bees have flown, the cranes have settled: night is gone, day too will pass.
The maiden Jiva shivers and shudders: She knows not how her lover will receive her.

An unbaked pot retains not water: When the Swan departs, the body withers.
My arms are aching with scaring the crows. Kabir says, Now this tale is ended.